


it ends with a version of keeping

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, F/F, One Shot, Tea, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 11:59:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12817068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Joan and Vera enjoy a cuppa together.





	it ends with a version of keeping

**Author's Note:**

> The title is inspired by an instrumental song by one of my favorites, librarytapes.

Two bodies occupy a single space. Governor and Deputy operate as a unit: a functional machine as much as a living, breathing organism. It's a perfectly pure sin to tread this thin line known as professionalism. Ethics are disregarded, replaced by a higher order. Their inherent nature serves as a paradox, lost to the meaning of the outsider looking in.

Here, two act as one.

“Put the kettle on,” the Governor asks though it's disguised as a command.

Vera's blouse spills open at her throat. Her hair falls in ringlets, scraping her pink cheeks. She has exchanged her uniform skirt for a pair of flannels that fray at the edge; it unravels just as they do, just as they were _meant_ to do.

At the sight, Joan wrinkles her nose. She welcomes Vera Bennett's chaos into her sanctuary.

It doesn't matter what they wear; the interaction is enough.

Every item within the kitchen has a purpose. Similarly, each item has a distinct function. From the cabinet underneath, beside the shiny, chrome pots and pans, Vera pulls out the metal kettle. She's a fast learner, catching onto Joan's systematic need for order. From the fridge, she fetches distilled bottles of water. It purifies the taste of the tea rather than letting the faucet run.

Dim light streams in past the parted curtain. Its black and monochromatic like the vast majority of Joan Ferguson's once vacant home. In the doorway, the taller woman – a Devil feared and revered (loathed and despised) – observes her student, her partner.

Since arriving, she has loosened her hair and pulled it back into a ponytail. With a twist of her wrist, Vera turns on the heat. Tiny flames intensify. Fire licks at the basin, but it's as the saying goes: a watched pot never boils.

So, maybe this will all go up in flames; the world's bound to end in that way.

In silence, Joan pads across her kitchen, her hallowed ground, in plush slippers.

Vera sneaks into the cabinet for a packet of Tim Tams. On the counter, they await consumption. Joan purchased such a treat with only her sweet-toothed deputy in mind. Large palms slide over petite sides to usher her aside. The doe of a woman scoots to her left, out of the way. It's easy to become small when you've been raised to believe in being such.

Out of the glass cabinet, she procures a ceramic teapot meant to retain the water when it's good and proper. A piece of blue and white china procures an ornate spout. The design resembles the intricacy of a fabergé egg. You could lose yourself to the spirals.

Vera stares, her wide blue-grey eyes devouring and speaking plenty.

“A token from my mother,” Joan elaborates without delving into further detail.

It suffices.

The kettle whistles.

“Would you like me to fetch it?”

Eager to please, Vera glances at her superior. A nod follows. She gestures loosely with a toss of her hand.

“By all means.”

The stove switches off. Impatiently, the kettle whines. She reaches for a quilted pot holder and yanks It from the source of obscene heat. Vera fills the pot and sets aside the empty, metal skeleton.

Meanwhile, Joan retrieves the saucers and cups. Earl grey is the delight of the evening. She positions the bags – neatens the tiny, white string that hold everything together.

“Three minutes,” the Governor elaborates by holding up the same amount of fingers.

The tip of her tongue peaks out from between plush, parted lips. It's a die-hard habit of concentration. Vera focuses on pouring an even amount of boiling water into each mug. She's learned from the best, after all.

A splash of milk and but a pinch of tea is designed to compliment, not distract from the taste. An overindulgence would ruin the flavor.

Synchronized, they squeeze their bags.

The rest is left to cool.

“Sit, Vera.”

Loyally, she does.

Joan crosses her legs one over the other. Her deputy mirrors the act.

Impatience gets the best of her. She blows at the edge of her cuppa. At the risk of scalding her tongue, Vera takes a sip. The pain is temporary, finite. She cuts her biscuit in two and nibbles on one piece. Then, the other.

Satisfied, Joan indulges by observing.

“It's good,” she mumbles quietly, pleasantly.

“I know,” Joan says with a ghostly smirk.

She worships the fine silhouette of her deputy.

It's a willing mistake to let her in.


End file.
